


Practice Makes Perfect

by Crystalwren



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: fandomaid, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:03:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalwren/pseuds/Crystalwren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not the one wearing the trousers in this relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dark_wulf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dark_wulf).



> Written for the fandomaid Superstorm Sandy auction, for dark_wulf, who asked for a fic to this Sherlock BBC Kink Meme prompt: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Remember how Sherlock gets hit by a car not once but twice chasing down the taxi? After the events of the episode, they are back at 221B and John discovers Sherlock's bruises. John immediately goes into Doctor mode, Sherlock is confused because no one has ever cared about his injuries/taken care of them before. Gen or slash or pre-slash, it's all fine. Bonus if Sherlock flinches away from John at first because he honestly doesn't understand being cared for._

"Strip," John says, in a voice that brooks no argument.

"Strip?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows in question.

"Strip," John repeats, hefting a rather large first aid kit in a way that seems vaguely threatening.

"I don't have any money right now."

"Money?" The first aid kit is being disembowelled with astonishing efficiency, John's hands moving with pure muscle memory. "What?"

"To pay you with."

"Pay me for what?" 

"Medical aid," Sherlock explains, "Costs money."

John stares. "This isn't America," he says slowly, as he finishes with the kit, contents arrayed on the table around him in perfect geometric positions. "If you can get hurt, you can see a doctor or go to an emergency ward. If you go to a doctor, you will of course pay a nominal fee, but that's really just to cover overheads."

"Yes, but hospitals are paid for by the tax payer. Taxation is what subsidies private practice as well."

"I doubt that you've ever paid tax in your life, Sherlock."

"I pay taxes," Sherlock says in indigently, "I'm a British citizen."

"You? Pay tax?" John blinks. And blinks again. And howls with laughter. 

"I do! Well, probably. Every time money goes into my bank account, ten point zero seven percent immediately disappears. Mycroft takes it as tax." Sherlock hesitates. "At least, that's what he tells me. Besides," he adds as John's sniggers begin to subside, "It's the right thing to do."

"Of course," John sniggers, "You're a proper British citizen. I'm sorry I doubted you." His eyes narrow. "Now strip."

"I said that I didn't have any money. I'll go to the hospital."

"Get back here! Sherlock, you were just hit by two- count 'em, two- taxis! You know, several tonnes of metal and glass-"

"- actually, the average car weighs-"

"-and you need medical attention now. And when I say strip, I mean strip."

"I am not your underling! And I'm not- oh." Sherlock looks down. He's already shimmed half way out of his trousers. John's military training at work; John has the Voice. Sherlock understands it. It goes straight into the hindbrain without bothering the frontal lobe. All the better for terrorising wounded soldiers into submission with. Completely without conscious thought, Sherlock's halfway nekkid. 

"Keep going," John grunts, eying a rather spectacular bruise that runs from Sherlock's bony hip, right down to his knee. Warm fingers gently curl around the back of Sherlock's neck, pushing him around to face forward. "Tell me if it hurts." It did, of course, but after some gentle prodding, John determines that it's only soft tissue damage and moves on. This time there's a definite popping sound in Sherlock's left shoulder blade. "A slight sprain," John explains, "It'll have to be immobilised for a few days." 

The examination continues. Every bruise is accounted for, every contusion lovingly documented. 

"I can't believe you're not in more pain," John says with something very like exasperation. "Then again..." 

All over Sherlock's body there are scars. Knife fights, accidents, assaults, even self-inflicted injuries when he'd become so desperate for new data that he'd experimented on himself.

"You've built up a fair pain tolerance over the years, I take it."

"Yes," Sherlock says, but jumps regardless when something cold and wet is suddenly slapped against the worst of the bruises. 

"Don't tell me that hurt," John smirks as he rubs a handful of cream into Sherlock's tender skin. 

"No, you just startled me."

"Rub the rest of it in yourself. Gently, mind! No point in making it worse." With brisk, no nonsense motions, John wipes the residue from his hands, and then begins to repack the first aid kit. "I said gently!" he snaps, when Sherlock begins to get bored and rub faster to get it over with. 

Scowling, Sherlock complies. It takes an age before John pronounces himself satisfied and dispenses a wet wipe for Sherlock's hands with a definite air of generosity.

"Medical aid must be paid for," Sherlock says, dropping the wet wipe carelessly on the floor. 

"I told you, Sherlock, this is- hmph!"

Sherlock's never kissed anyone before. He's surprised to discover that it's not entirely unpleasant.

It takes a few seconds for John to disengage himself. "Sherlock! I'm not your boyfriend!"

"I know that, John," says Sherlock. "But I've been told that sexual favours can be used like currency and-" he breaks off as John pushes him gently but firmly away.

"You don't have to pay me," John tells him, "I helped you because you are a friend and I'm a doctor. And that's the end of it."

He picks up the kit and goes into the kitchen to stow it away.

"John?" Sherlock calls after him.

"Yes?"

"How was it?"

"How was what?"

"The kiss. Did I do it right?"

John sticks his head from behind the wall. A broad grin spreads across his face.

"Needs practice," he said.

END


End file.
